


Momentum

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Dancing, Friends to Lovers, Gloves, M/M, Nightmares, Photography, Pining, Secret Crush, Starting Over, Status Effects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-08 06:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13452123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Just the sight of him, standing there holding a cup of coffee, barrels through Prompto's brain like a puppy excited about going out for a walk – and before he even realizes what he's doing, he's fumbling for the camera.He snaps five shots, in quick succession: Ignis looking into the distance, expression soft and preoccupied. Ignis lifting the coffee. Ignis with his lips on the rim, taking a tentative taste. Ignis closing his eyes as though to savor it.Ignis with his eyes open again, looking directly toward the camera.Wait, thinks Prompto, as the last one burrows its way into his thoughts and starts setting off alarm bells.  What?





	1. Pictures

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys. Happy Promnis week! 
> 
> I'll be doing one chapter per prompt, and by the end hopefully have a finished fic. The plan is to collab with the incredibly talented [beanclam](http://beanclam.tumblr.com/) for maximum Promnis shipping effectiveness! 8)
> 
> Day 1: "Can I take a picture of you like this?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out [beanclam's](http://beanclam.tumblr.com) amazing art in the closing notes for this chapter. It is gorgeous!!!! 8DDDD

Today's the kind of day Prompto can really get behind.

It's late autumn, that last great gasp of clear weather before winter settles in. Despite the chill, the sun's shining, the sky's this fantastic shade of blue, and the whole world's so bright it looks like someone slapped a polarizing filter on it.

And here's Prompto, right in the middle of it all, camera in hand. He couldn't ask for better lighting; the shots are practically taking themselves. He's walked probably seven miles already, lost behind the lens – has shot after shot of the flowers in the park, and the statue out front of the community center, and the little black kitten curled up on her owner's lap in the corner store on Semita Way.

The best part is, he has the whole rest of the day to keep going. It's 9 am, and he's already got probably 200 shots. If he's lucky, a couple might even be good enough for his portfolio.

He parents are out of town, and Noct's doing the whole father-son bonding thing with his dad today, so Prompto's on his own time. It's Saturday; the whole weekend stretches in front of him, school-free and full of promise. He's got nowhere to be, and no one waiting for him – and sometimes that's kind of lonely, but today? Today it feels like an adventure.

He wanders the streets, following whatever catches his interest – ends up with a great candid of a ruffled crow sitting on a stop sign. By the time he stumbles onto a farmer's market he didn't even know was open on Saturday mornings, his cheeks are stinging with the brisk fall breeze and his fingers are chilled straight through with the cold.

The sign that reads Fresh Roasted Coffee, there on the corner stall of the market, looks like a welcome mat. It's probably a stupid amount per cup, but now that he's working part-time, he can afford to treat himself every now and then.

Prompto lets his camera settle on its strap, and starts toward the stall, cupping his palms against his mouth and blowing in an attempt to warm them.

He's halfway there before the man at the front of the line turns to walk away, steaming cup in his hands – and it's a few startled seconds after that before Prompto realizes he knows him.

Because it's Ignis, but not the way Prompto's used to him.

Even in the privacy of Noct's apartment, he always looks like he's ready to step out the door and greet some waiting dignitary. His hair's always masterfully gelled, and his posture is always impeccable, and he always looks about seventeen thousand times more put together than Prompto dreams of being.

But Prompto's never seen him like this before. Gone are the pressed slacks and neat jacket and carefully even buttons. In their place are a cable-knit sweater, comfortable green yarn that's dulled with age, and a pair of crisp, casual chinos. His hair's down, too, the strands hanging in his face soft and artless.

It's a good look on him.

It's a _great_ look on him.

It's the kind of look that makes Prompto's mouth go dry, and his cheeks go a little flushed. It's the kind of look that makes him remember the way he stammered like an idiot the day Noct introduced them, tripping all over himself in an effort to look some tiny degree of cool in front of the single most attractive person he'd ever laid eyes on.

Just the sight of him, standing there holding a cup of coffee, barrels through Prompto's brain like a puppy excited about going out for a walk – and before he even realizes what he's doing, he's fumbling for the camera.

He snaps five shots, in quick succession: Ignis looking into the distance, expression soft and preoccupied. Ignis lifting the coffee. Ignis with his lips on the rim, taking a tentative taste. Ignis closing his eyes as though to savor it.

Ignis with his eyes open again, looking directly toward the camera.

Wait, thinks Prompto, as the last one burrows its way into his thoughts and starts setting off alarm bells.  What?

He fumbles the camera – drops it – feels the strap do its job and prevent him from breaking the most expensive thing he owns. His cheeks are burning when he glances up again to confirm that yes, Ignis is in fact looking his way.

Prompto lifts one hand – waggles the fingers in the world's most awkward wave, and tries to put on a disarming smile.

Since running away screaming will probably only make this worse, he takes a deep breath and walks toward Ignis.

"Uh," he says. "Morning, Iggy. Hope you don't mind. I, uh, snapped a couple shots."

"So it seems," says Ignis, mildly, with something like amusement.

Prompto's face is probably tomato red. Even his ears are burning. "I'm working on my portfolio," he says, all in a rush. "Candid shots around the city. It's not just – I mean, um. Not that you're not a great subject. You totally are. But, like – there's other stuff, too. There was this kitten."

He needs to shut up. He needs to shut up five minutes ago.

The whole world needs to rewind, and Prompto needs to never have stepped into this farmer's market.

"I take it the kitten was the highlight," says Ignis, smiling faintly, and holds out a hand. For a beat too long, Prompto doesn't understand what he's asking for. Then it clicks, all at once, and he scrambles to hand the camera over so fast he almost drops it.

Ignis turns the view screen toward him, carefully. It's still connected to Prompto by the strap, so Prompto goes with it, reeling him in an extra couple of inches. He can hardly breathe. It is definitely, _definitely_ not cold anymore.

"Just use the back arrow to page through," says Prompto.

Ignis pauses – considers his free hand, still occupied with his coffee cup. "Would you mind?"

"Oh," says Prompto. "Sure. No problem."

He circles around so that he can see the view screen, too. In this new position, his shoulder's pressed right up against Ignis', and he can feel the heat from Ignis' body through the sweater.

Prompto swallows. His palms are kind of sweaty.

He pages back through the images, narrating as he goes. "There's you. And that crow was kind of cool. And the sky's _great_ today, I couldn't not get a shot with the clouds like that."

By the time they reach the kitten, Prompto's sure he's going to melt into a crack in the pavement. The little hums of interest and murmurs of approval are making his blood sing in his veins.

"I can see why you're so enamored," says Ignis, and Prompto goes absolutely stock still.

How did he give himself away? He didn't say anything. Is he being that obvious? He can feel his heart slamming in his chest, but there's no way it's loud enough for Ignis to hear, right?

 _Right_?

Then Ignis is saying, "Did her owner mention a name?" and Prompto thinks: "Oh. The kitten," only he thinks it as though from a great distance, over the buzzing in his ears.

"Uh," says Prompto. "She, uh. She named him after the prince."

Ignis pauses. His eyes lift from the camera, incredulous. "Noctis."

Prompto nods.

"Well," says Ignis, and pulls back with a bemused shake of his head. "He's certainly inherited his namesake's propensity for naps."

"Kind of had the whole cranky in the mornings thing going, too," Prompto offers, with a shy sort of grin. He takes the camera back, a little reluctantly – presses the button to kill the power. "Anyway, those are the highlights."

"They were lovely," says Ignis. "You've had quite an eventful morning."

Prompto shuffles his feet. The words "They were lovely," bury themselves in his chest and nestle there.

"Yeah," breathes Prompto. "It, uh. It's definitely been something."

He means to add more – ask what Ignis is up to today, maybe. But the brisk trill of Ignis' cellphone inserts itself before he can, cutting into the warmth of the moment.

"A moment, if you would," says Ignis, and slips it from his pocket to answer.

"Hello?" he says, then pauses. "Yes, in the filing cabinet." Another pause, longer this time. "I'm certain."

The third pause goes on for nearly a minute. By the end of it, Ignis' lips are pressed thin, expression decidedly unamused. "Leave everything exactly where it is," he says. "I'll be there in half an hour."

Then he taps the phone off.

"Man," says Prompto, "You don't even get weekends?"

"The city never sleeps, as they say." Ignis sighs – smooths his hands down the front of his sweater. "I'd best make haste."

"Good luck," says Prompto. "You'll kick its ass, whatever it is."

Ignis' face softens, then, the irritation from the phone call slipping away at the corners. "Undoubtedly," he says, smile almost fond. "Now, much as I'd like to stay, if you'll excuse me?"

"Ah," says Prompto. "Yeah. Sure. Go for it."

And with a nod of acknowledgement, Ignis steps out of Prompto's morning as quickly as he appeared.

Prompto watches him go, three steps, and then six, and then twelve. His brain grabs hold of the words "Much as I'd like to stay," and replays them in his thoughts, over and over, until he feels a little dizzy.

Reluctantly, Prompto tells himself that he ought to get back to what he was doing – starts to walk, not especially paying attention to where he's going.

He's halfway down the block before he remembers that he'd wanted to buy coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at [this INCREDIBLE art](http://beanclam.tumblr.com/post/170010245231/for-promnisweek-day-1-can-i-take-a-picture-of) by beanclam! It is gorgeous and I love everything about it. <3333
> 
> (Please stop by and leave her a comment on the Tumblr post. You will make her day. <3)


	2. Pining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Pining. In which our boy Prompto has it bad. :)
> 
> Please check the end notes for more lovely art by the very talented [beanclam](http://beanclam.tumblr.com/)1

"So are you gonna tell me who it is," says Noct, "or am I gonna have to guess?"

Prompto's mouth is full of ravioli, so he can't answer right away. It's amazing ravioli, too, stuffed with spinach and ricotta; it's not the cheap store brand that's all he's ever had before today.

Ignis made it, and Ignis is in the kitchen of Noct's apartment right now, doing the dishes, and Ignis is also the answer to that question.

Prompto chokes on his ravioli, and Noct spends thirty seconds pounding him on the back until he can breathe again.

"Warn a guy," Prompto gasps, and Noct says, "Sorry," but he's smiling, and it crinkles the corners of his eyes in the way that means he's not sorry at all.

"Is everything all right?" says Ignis from the kitchen doorway. He's cradling a plate in two hands. The dish towel is arranged carefully beneath it, so that it doesn't drip on the floor.

"Just fine," squeaks Prompto, at the same moment Noct says, "Prom's got a crush."

The blush races up his face like fire, scorching everything in its path. Even his ears are burning.

"Ah," says Ignis, mildly. "Who's the lucky young lady?"

Prompto ducks his head and stares down at the ravioli. Lucky. He said _lucky_. "No one you know," he manages to choke out.

"Don't worry," says Noct, and reaches over, casually, to poke Prompto between the ribs. "I'll get it out of him."

 

* * *

 

Prompto only has one memory card for his camera.

He doesn't hold onto pictures for too long; he just doesn't have the space. He prints the ones he wants to keep, and the rest meet the little trashcan icon in a very final kind of way.

There are a few that he can never quite bring himself to delete, though.

He has a shot of his mother, a report for her work spread out on the kitchen table in front of her, pen in her hand. He has one of his father, wearing the scarf Prompto bought him the last time he was home for solstice. He has a great cityscape with the sun high and bright in one corner, and a moody close-up of some rusted machinery by the docks, and the chocobo float from last year's equinox parade.

And then there's Ignis.

He still has all five shots of Ignis from that day at market. They're great shots; every line is crisp and clear. You can see the texture on the the cableknit sweater, and the steam from the coffee cup, and the way the early morning sunlight catches Ignis' eyes and turns them the most incredible moss green.

Prompto pages through those pictures, sometimes, while he's sitting alone at the kitchen table. He thinks of Ignis' voice, crisp and cultured; he thinks of Ignis' gloved hands, shapely and elegant; he thinks of Ignis' long, long legs, crossed prim and proper while he sits on Noct's couch.

Then Prompto inevitably thinks of what it might feel like to have those gloved fingers slide beneath his chin to tip his face up for a kiss. He fumbles for the off switch every time, hands unsteady with nerves, face red.

He tells himself to delete the shots, but somehow, he never does.

 

* * *

 

"Seriously," says Noct, the next time they're at the arcade. "Is it Hannah?"

"Dude," says Prompto, feeling himself start to blush. He dips the gun down toward the edge of the screen to reload – lifts it and sends zombie brains splattering with a point blank bullseye. "Would you let it go?"

"Amicus?" guesses Noct. "Becca?"

Prompto blasts three zombies down all in a row. He bites his lip, trying to ignore the way Noct's lounging against the machine, watching him with a teasing kind of smile.

"It's not a girl, okay?" says Prompto, eyes fixed firmly on the screen, face a bright tomato red.

There's a beat of silence.

Then Noct says, "It's Gladio, isn't it," and Prompto makes a sound like a thoroughly traumatized cat.

The zombies finish him off for good.

 

* * *

 

"Come on," says Noct. "Is it someone I know?"

They're sitting in the movies, waiting for the lights to go down so they can watch low budget aliens destroy Eos, and somehow, Noct's gotten it into his head that _now's_ the time to fish for info. Prompto's 96% certain it's because there's no viable escape route.

"I said no like fifteen times, dude," says Prompto.

"Well, yeah," says Noct. "But you're really bad at lying."

"What?" Prompto casts his mind back over the last week and a half, searching for something that might have given him away. "I am not."

Noct leans against his armrest, smirking. "So you did lie."

Prompto trips over his own words – stammers and tries to correct course.

By the time he's got his brain back in working order, Noct's already saying, "Is it Mr. Alacer?"

Just the suggestion of it shocks Prompto into a reply. "Our English teacher? Dude. _No_."

Noct hums softly in consideration. "Clarus?"

"Gladio's _dad_?" Prompto stares at Noct like he's just grown a second head.

"Okay," says Noct. "Ignis."

"Ignis?" squeaks Prompto.

He means to say no. He means to let some careless dismissal roll off his tongue, like it has for everyone else, but the words stick in his throat.

Noct opens his mouth to reply, doubtless ready with another guess. He frowns – peers closely at Prompto's face.

"Oh my gods," he breathes, and starts to grin.

 

* * *

 

"I'm dying," says Prompto.

He's flopped over sideways on Noct's unfairly comfortable couch, a chemistry book splayed out on his stomach. Noct's still holding a stack of flashcards, and right about now they look every bit as deadly as a live bomb.

"You're fine," says Noct. "We've got all night."

"Easy for you to say," Prompto groans. "You started studying last week."

Noct's about answer, but suddenly there's a rap on the door, and then the sound of a key in the lock. Prompto wants to stay flopped out on the couch for a year and a half and demand that the Astrals deliver him from the suffering that is high school chemistry, but he knows damn well what a key in the lock on a weeknight means.

He sits up so fast he's pretty sure he's gonna give himself whiplash.

"How's my hair?" he hisses, running his hands through it, checking to see if he flattened it while he was lying back on the couch.

But Noct, the traitor, just laughs. "You are such a nerd," he says, fondly.

Then the door swings open, and Ignis steps inside.

"Good evening," he says, and Prompto maybe swoons a little. Just a little. Good gods, that accent.

Noct is outright smirking. "Hey, Specs," he says, conversationally. "Prompto's dying."

Ignis raises one perfect, sculpted eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Prompto feels his face start to heat up. "I am not," he says, and kicks his best friend, viciously, where their feet are still out of sight behind the couch.

"Death by chemistry," says Noct. "Pretty tragic." He pauses a beat, looking up as though he's just realized something. "Hey, you did pretty good in science, didn't you?"

And that's how, half an hour later, Prompto's sitting at the kitchen table with the hottest person ever to walk the face of Eos helping him study for tomorrow's chemistry test.

And that's how, an hour later, the table is full of Ignis' hand-drawn diagrams, Prompto's head is full of information, and he feels like he might actually pass this gods-forsaken test. Not even just pass. Like, pull an A or a B on it.

It's not fair. How can one person be that attractive _and_ that smart? He feels like Ignis lined up twice when the gods were handing out AP points or something. Maybe he doubled up and got Prompto's turn in line. That would explain a lot.

Prompto's just finished cramming his school books into his backpack; he's got to get home and get some sleep so he's in top form for his personal crusade against the dragon that is chemistry.

"Thanks," he's saying, folding up Ignis' diagrams with reverent hands. "I mean it. You are like genius level, dude. You saved my life."

When he looks up, he forgets all about what he's doing. Because Ignis? Ignis is smiling at him.

He's wearing his normal stern, no-nonsense face, but there it is, just a hint twitching there at the corners of his lips: fond, and soft, so like the smile from that long-ago morning at the market.

Prompto finds that he's smiling back, wide and bright and helpless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at [this amazing chapter art](http://asidian.tumblr.com/post/170060525058/beanclam-for-promnisweek-day-2-pining) by beanclam! :DDD


	3. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Ignis comforting Prompto from reoccurring nightmares. :)
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all the lovely comments so far! I'm glad you're enjoying! <3
> 
> The end notes have more incredible art by beanclam! :D

The masks are as blank as the fade-to-black after a game over screen.

There's no emotion there, in the metallic lines of them; they're flat and lifeless, a poor approximation of humanity.

And the eyes – the eyes are watching him.

Prompto thinks he's imagining it at first, but every time he turns his head, he catches sight of it in the periphery of his vision: a hint of movement, a gleam of recognition in the holes cut into unforgiving metal.

He wants to crawl out of his own skin, to get away from them. He wants shake his friends by the shoulders, and demand to know whether they've seen it, too.

But they're not even glancing his way. They're wrapped up in conversation, clustered around a man with hair like old leaves and an awful, knowing smile. They listen to Ardyn like he's woven a spell; their eyes never leave his face.

The airship rumbles, a creak of old metal. Prompto feels it in the pit of his stomach, as they start to descend. He's never flown before in his life, but there's nothing exhilarating about it. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the Archaen's face, massive and ancient. Every time he takes a breath in, it reminds him that they're only breathing because the Chancellor stepped in to save them.

He counts down the seconds as they come in to land – tries not to stare at the MTs lining the walls. Before Prompto set out on this roadtrip, they've always been a distant reminder, there on the evening news.

Now, he spends his days putting bullets through their metal casing – feels his barcode beneath his wrist like a brand, pretty much 24/7.

Empty inside, people say. Nothing but gears and wire.

Even though he knows they're wrong, Prompto can't help the shiver of unease that works up his spine at the sight of those lifeless eyes.

When the hatch to the airship finally eases open, relief washes over Prompto like cool water, soothing the pricking anxiety sparking below his skin. Thanks gods they're finally getting out of here. He doesn't think he can stay another minute, cooped up in this metal coffin with all those eyes on him.

"Come on," says Noct, and turns for the opening. "Let's get out of here."

Ignis and Gladio fall in behind him, and Prompto moves to follow.

He doesn't get very far.

The MTs lining the edges of the ship step forward, as though in response to a silent command, ringing him in on all sides.

"Uh," says Prompto. "I'd love to stay, but – places to be, you know?"

He tries to step around the metallic forms blocking his passage, but they stand hard and immobile, arms at their sides. Ardyn has that knowing smile on his lips again. "Oh," he says. "Forgive me. I wasn't aware."

"Dude," says Prompto. "Call them off!"

Ardyn only smiles wider. "You're certain all of you have places to be? I only ask out of idle curiosity, you understand."

Prompto _is_ certain – right up until those words leave Ardyn's mouth. Suddenly, he's not sure. Suddenly, the first creeping tendrils of panic begin to worm their way into his chest.

When he glances up, he can see that Noct and the others are halfway down the plank now, almost out of the airship. They've begun to talk together, in hushed tones, the words too distant for Prompto to make out.

"Hey, guys?" calls Prompto, voice a bit strained. "A little help here?"

No one turns their head. They keep walking, and it occurs to Prompto, all at once, that they won't stop. They never meant to stop; this was as far as they ever planned to take him.

He's here because he belongs here, and this is where he'll stay.

"Guys?" says Prompto – or tries to say, at least.

All that comes out is a strange, mechanical squeal, nothing like his voice at all.

Prompto balks – panics – staggers back three steps and listens to the way his feet clang on the floor when he does, metal on metal. It's hard to move; everything's at a disjointed angle, as though he's not quite familiar with the way limbs work.

Prompto opens his mouth to scream, but his lips catch against the unforgiving metal of the mask pressed against the soft flesh of his face. He lifts his fingers to touch the surface of it, but he feels only dull, blank pressure – no sensation.

The MTs close in around him, so near that their presence is suffocating. Fists of steel close around his shoulders, and his waist, and his arms, holding him in place.

Prompto tries to scream again, and thrashes – fights for all he's worth.

But Noct is stepping out of the airship, now, Ignis and Gladio behind him. That glimmer of light and fresh air disappears as the opening closes up behind them.

It's dark inside the hold without them there, and Prompto can't breathe.

It's dark, and he can't _breathe_ , and all that's left to keep him company are a dozen blank faces exactly like his.

Prompto jolts, and gasps, and for a moment, nothing changes. It's dark, and he can't breathe.

Then something pats carefully against his back, and Ignis' voice says, "Prompto?" and hands are peeling the blankets away from his face.

Suddenly, there's light. Suddenly, his gasping breaths actually fill his lungs.

Prompto shoves himself up to sitting, disoriented – takes in the lines of their hotel room, laid out in the shadows of night and the warm gold of Lestallum's streetlights pouring in through the window. The distant call of someone hawking wares at the morning market drifts in through the curtains with the warm night breeze, and the clock on the bedside table reads 5:30. In the other bed, Noct and Gladio are a shapeless mass under the covers.

But Ignis – Ignis is sitting up beside him, brows drawn down with concern.

When Prompto begged Noct earlier for a bed-swap, scared half to death about the kinds of dreams he might have sharing with Ignis, this wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

He should have known better. His mind's been like some kind of booby-trapped video game dungeon, ever since that run-in with Titan. Small favors – at least he's not having to sneak off and do laundry in the mornings, anymore.

"Sorry, dude," says Prompto, trying to tell his still-racing heart that everything's fine. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

"It's scarcely your fault," says Ignis. His voice is pitched low and soothing. He's probably keeping it down so he doesn't wake Noct and Gladio.

Prompto sneaks a glance at his face, trying to interpret the expression there. His fingers work restlessly at the leather band covering his wrist, and when he realizes, he forces himself to let go. "I wasn't, like. Talking in my sleep, was I?"

"Nothing terribly comprehensible," Ignis assures him.

Prompto groans and sets his face in his hands. He says, "I really am sorry, dude," only it comes out muffled, because he says the words into his palm.

"Prompto," says Ignis, voice a soft reprimand. "Don't be ridiculous."

Prompto isn't quite sure how to take that – still isn't, when he feels Ignis set a hand on his back, just between the shoulder blades. But something about the weight of it loosens the knot tied tight in his chest. For the first time since waking, the dream isn't there at the back of his throat, choking him.

"Who, me?" says Prompto, and tries on a smile. "Ridiculous? I would never."

When he glances up, he's startled to see how close Ignis is. He looks younger, without his glasses on, and his hair is mussed with sleep. His pajamas, navy button-ups, expose a smooth swath of pale skin there at the collar bone.

All at once, Prompto remembers why he'd been so nervous to bunk down together in the first place.

He licks at his lips, mouth gone suddenly dry. "Uh," he says.

The dream, for better or worse, seems to all but vanish. His traitor heart is still racing, but this time, it's for a different reason.

"I don't suppose you want to talk about it?" says Ignis, gently – and for one heart-stopping second, Prompto thinks he's been found out.

Then he gets it together, and calls himself eighty different kinds of stupid, and makes himself reply. "Nah. I'm good, dude. Think I'm mostly past it now."

"You're certain?" says Ignis.

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Just helps to have someone around. You know?"

And it does. He can't dwell on hard metal or empty eyes, with Ignis' hand warm against his back. He can't drown in the icy shock of abandonment, with Ignis sitting here beside him.

Ignis' eyes remain fixed on him for a moment, level and appraising. "Since you're up anyway," he says at last, "I've a proposal."

"Yeah?" says Prompto, and tells his idiot brain that of course it isn't _that_ kind of proposal.

"Shall we beat the sun today?" says Ignis. "The best produce at the market sells early."

Prompto pauses. Then he smiles again, and it's genuine this time – closer to a grin. "If I carry the bags, do I get a vote on what we have for breakfast?"

Ignis' lips quirks up into an answering smile of his own. "Certainly."

And Prompto, already in the process of tripping out of bed, tells him, "Gimme two seconds dude. I'm way ahead of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, you guys. Look at this lovely, lovely beanclam art. :D
> 
> [Ignis comforts Prompto after a nightmare](http://beanclam.tumblr.com/post/170338706361/for-promnisweek-day-3-nightmares-i-know-i)


	4. Gloves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate everyone who's sticking with this. I'm so glad you guys are enjoying. I hope you like today's chapter, as well. :)
> 
> Day 4: Gloves

"Hey, Iggy?" says Prompto, as he pulls the door to the camper closed behind him.

There's no answer, but the rush of running water fills the little space, and Prompto knows well enough what that means. They've been staying here two days already; the cramped shower has become a fixture in his life, complete with crappy water pressure and a stall so narrow he can't turn around without banging his elbows.

He slips his phone out of his pocket – opens up his text history with Noct and taps out: "he's in the shower."

A second later, Noct sends: "no peeking :p"

Prompto's face, of course, immediately goes lava-hot. He shoots back: "idek why we're friends."

"cuz you have good taste," Noct replies. A second later, he adds: "sometimes. still dunno how you eat beets."

Prompto's still composing his defense of beets when a new text message arrives: "wanna bring specs when he's done? We'll play justice mons till you guys get here."

"k," Prompto sends back. "give gladio a turn this time."

Noct replies with an emoji of the Infernian's face, horns sharp and lips curved into a wicked smile, and despite the fact that Noct is measurably the worst best friend to ever walk the face of Eos, Prompto snorts a laugh. He shoves the phone back into his pocket and flops onto the cot to wait.

Ignis won't be long; he never is. The man's practically a machine; he has showering down to a science.

But maybe, Prompto thinks as the minutes tick past and the shower shows no sign of stopping, that's because he has to share the hot water with three other dudes. Maybe he's got the right idea, tucking himself away in the middle of the day to avoid the chance of his shower going tepid.

Prompto kicks his feet, idly. He hums to himself, a silly little nonsense tune, while his eyes wander around the caravan, searching for something interesting. He's just starting to make up words to the song – an ode to some mystical shower of the ancients, a treasure that never runs short on hot water – when Prompto's eyes fall to the neat stack of folded clothes on the narrow table beside the bathroom.

It's a pair of pressed slacks, and a neatly-folded striped button-up. Coiled on top, in a careful circle, are the by-now familiar suspenders. Set carefully to one side are Ignis' glasses and the supple leather of a pair of driving gloves.

Prompto's song wavers and gives out. He glances away from the gloves, as though guilty.

His daydreams star those gloves, sometimes. He's imagined the way they might feel tracing against his collar bone, or skimming against his thigh. Those gloves have done some things that are decidedly X-rated, in his dreams at night.

Prompto bites at his lip and glances away. He tells himself to stop blushing so damn much.

The shower rushes on, and Prompto asks himself: what would be the harm?

His mind is playing daemon's advocate, and try as he might, he can't think of a good reason not to. They're just _gloves_. He's tried on Iggy's glasses before, half drunk after a long night in a bar at Lestallum, giggling and barely on his feet. Ignis had smiled wryly and held him up, and told him that his accent needed a bit of work before he could pass.

The gloves are no different, right?

The gloves are totally different, and Prompto knows it. He can feel it in the pulse of his own heartbeat, as he swings his legs over the side of the cot and makes for the pile of clothes.

He picks it up in the hitch of his own breathing, as his fingertips brush the soft leather.

He can feel it all the way down to his bones, as he slips the glove from his own left hand, with infinite care, and replaces it with Ignis'.

It's not quite a fit. Ignis' fingers are longer than his; there's space in the tips, evidence that these are custom-tailored masterpieces. Where they hug Ignis' hands like a second skin, Prompto can see the places, on him, where they don't quite line up.

But they're gorgeous, all the same. He can smell them: the soft, earthy scent of leather. That smell is going to take center stage in his dreams tonight, he's sure. Sweet Astrals, this was a terrible idea.

He's barely had the thought before the shower is turning off. The sound of the water going silent seems deafening in his ears. Prompto jolts like he's been electrocuted – scrambles to tug the glove off.

He's too late.

The door cracks open almost instantly, releasing a billow of sage-scented steam. Ignis' pale, gloveless hand reaches out through the opening toward the glasses; Ignis' body, still sopping wet, is covered only by the towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist.

He pauses mid-motion at the sight of Prompto standing there, half in and half out of his glove. "Apologies," Ignis says, eyes darting aside in an expression Prompto would have sworn, on anyone else, to be flustered. "If I'd known someone was here, I would have brought my clothes in with me."

Say something, Prompto's brain demands of his mouth. But Prompto's mouth is otherwise occupied in gaping like an idiot, and apparently it can't multi-task.

It isn't until Ignis has retreated into the bathroom with the glasses and most of his clothes that Prompto's desperate internal wailing translates into some kind of action. "Sorry, dude," he manages. "I kind of always wanted to try them, you know? They're pretty badass."

"No trouble at all," says Ignis, from safely inside. His voice is somewhat muffled by the closed door, but Prompto thinks he can detect a hint of embarrassment there in the tone of it.

Prompto gets the glove the rest of the way off. He sets it gingerly on the table.

He retreats to the cot, and tells himself to stop _blushing_ , because he's going to give himself away the second Ignis steps outside.

He might even succeed, but as soon as Ignis leaves the bathroom, this time in slacks and a button-up, he starts all over again, because the damp hair hanging into Ignis' eyes reminds him of the sight of slick skin covered by nothing more than a towel.

While Ignis clips his suspenders on, Prompto averts his eyes and says, "Noct and Gladio said to come get you. They're waiting at the Crow's Nest."

"Through a bucket and a half of fries already, doubtless," says Ignis with a sigh.

"Nah." says Prompto, with a grin, and glances back up in time to see Ignis slicking his hair into place with gel. "If we don't hurry, though, Noct's totally gonna blow all our spare change on Justice Monsters."

The corner of Ignis' mouth quirks up. "Astrals preserve us."

"Dude," says Prompto. "Not even the gods can get between Noct and his high score dreams."

"I supposed I'd best hurry, then," says Ignis, fondly – but Prompto still has to wait while he runs the hair drier and fixes his sock garters into place. There's plenty of time to reflect on the sheer unfair hotness presented by sock garters as an article of clothing, and the way they emphasize Ignis' shapely calves, and how Prompto has absolutely no hope of G-rated dreams tonight.

The last things Ignis puts on are the gloves. Watching his fingers slide into them, slender and elegant, is a special kind of hell.

Prompto swallows, with effort – manages to tear his eyes away, back up to Ignis' face.

He's looking at Prompto, and his expression is – it's weird. Prompto doesn't think he's ever seen Ignis look like that before: intent and searching, focused in a way that's kind of intimidating. Before he knows why, he's blushing again.

He jumps to his feet, making for the door of the caravan. "That's everything, right?" he says, fumbling out his phone. "I'll text Noct and let him know we're on our way."

"Prompto," says Ignis, and Prompto stumbles to a stop as though frozen solid by ice magic.

"Yeah?" says Prompto.

"How did you find the fit?"

Prompto blinks. He turns back around, brow starting to furrow. "The fit?"

"If you're fond of them" says Ignis, "perhaps we could trade for the day. I've always rather admired yours, as well."

The _gloves_ , Prompto realizes, all at once. He wants to trade gloves for a day.

That's – that's the worst idea ever, and that includes the time he got up on stage and sang Shiva's Lament in a dive karaoke bar in downtown Insomnia, two nights after joining the Crownsguard.

Say no, Prompto's brain hisses at him. Say _no_.

But what his traitor mouth actually says is, "I'm game."

That's how, fifteen minutes later, he follows Ignis into the Crow's Nest, more aware of his own hands than he's ever been in his life. There below his wrist bands, the expensive leather of Ignis' gloves feels like a way-too-intimate caress.


	5. Status Ailment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The continuing saga of Why Is This Prompto's Life. Sorry, Prompto.
> 
> Day 5: Status Ailment. :)a

Prompto loves dogs.

Honestly, what's not to love?

They're soft, and they've got big, soulful eyes, and the way their nails click when they run on a sidewalk is just about the cutest sound known to man. You always know where you stand with a dog. If the tail's going a mile a minute, you're doing something right.

Havocfangs, he thinks, are what happens when the Astrals get smashed at some celestial party and decide to experiment with a perfectly good dog.

Yeah, sure, the fur's good, but let's make it really long and shaggy, and smell like wet dog 24/7. And people like the way dogs' tails whip around when they're excited, right? We'll make them even whippier; that'll make em happy.

So the Astrals are sitting around, redesigning this dog, and someone – Prompto's money is on Ifrit, cause in the old stories, isn't it always Ifrit? – goes, "Hey, you know what would make this the _best dog ever_? What if, when it licked you, you completely flipped your lid."

And then, because the Astrals are at that stage of drunk where everything's funny, they give the go-ahead.

So that's why, right now, elbow-deep in a skirmish against a pack of havocfangs, Prompto is laying the blame firmly at the feet of the gods.

There's something intrinsically wrong about Ignis not having it all together. It's just how he _is_ ; he's on top of everything, all day, every day, from sunup till midnight, and probably also in his dreams.

But right now, he looks like a truck blindsided him; he's barely standing, kind of dazed, turning to peer vaguely in the direction of the havocfang that just bounded off to go harass Gladio. Gladio's got it covered, Prompto's glad to see. He's harassing right back, with a greatsword to intercept those wicked teeth.

Noct's wrapping up his own fight; he's busted out the ghost swords, which is kind of overkill. He definitely doesn't need Prompto's help.

Ignis, though. Ignis has whipped around and levelled his daggers directly at a tree.

"Uh," says Prompto. "You okay there, buddy?"

"We'd best consider a retreat," says Ignis, by way of reply. "I'm not certain we can manage this many."

Prompto glances back toward the last havocfang, twitching there on the ground, looking like a ghost-sword porcupine. "Think we got it covered, dude," says Prompto.

He sets a careful hand on Ignis' shoulder and applies gentle pressure, meaning to steer him away from the trees – maybe get him to sit down somewhere – but Ignis doesn't budge.

"C'mon, Iggy," says Prompto, and tries again. "Let's get you a remedy."

Ignis turns toward him, sudden and half-frantic. His eyes are wide behind the glasses – a little wild. "Get down," he hisses.

"Hey," says Prompto. "We're gonna be okay. I promise."

Or at least, that's what he tries to say. He gets as far as, "Hey," before Ignis slams into him, full-force.

Prompto squawks like a startled chocobo – gets his arms out, flails for all of two seconds, and then goes down flat on his back. He hits so hard the breath leaves him in a rush.

Above him, Ignis' face is still tense with worry. On either side of his shoulders, Ignis' hands bracket him in. Prompto can feel the warmth of Ignis' knee pressed against his outer thigh, and he's aware of the space between them, a bare six inches.

"Uh," says Prompto, intelligently.

No other thought will come to mind. He kind of blames it on the fact that all the blood in his brain just decided it has somewhere better to be.

"Hush," says Ignis. "Don't move. They won't be able to see us."

"Is that," says Prompto. "Is that even a thing? Cause I'm pretty sure you didn't say that last time we ran into havocfangs. I'm pretty sure that's like. From that movie about dinosaurs."

"Prompto," hisses Ignis, and reaches up to press a hand over his mouth.

And that. Okay, that should not be as hot as it is.

Prompto blames the damn gloves, but suddenly he's more turned on than he's ever been in his life. The soft leather against his lips and the way Ignis is straddling him, close but not touching, is going to be the end of him, he's sure. He's going to die here, and they'll bury him on this very spot, with nothing but a stick to mark his resting place.

"Man," says Gladio, as though from a great distance. "Looks like we missed the party."

"Mmmh," says Prompto, helplessly.

"You guys couldn't wait till we hit a hotel?" says Noct, and there's laugher in his voice.

Prompto thinks that maybe dying here won't be so bad, after all.

He can come back as a ghost and haunt his best friend for decades. That jerk is never going to get a decent night's sleep again. He'll be so sick of the sound of rattling chains, banning them will be his first official act as king.

"Have you all lost your minds?" Ignis demands. "Quickly! Take cover, before they see you."

"Can we get a remedy, here?" Prompto says. Or rather, he tries to say it. It comes out more like, "Mm mph mmh mmrm mh?" because Ignis' hand is still over his mouth.

"Kind of hard to hear you," says Noct, with a slanted smile. "You want something?"

" _Mmph_!" says Prompto.

Gladio looks from Noct to Prompto, then back again. He heaves the kind of sigh Ignis heaves sometimes, when they've been in the car for all of fifteen minutes before someone dares to ask, "Are we there yet?"

"Know what?" says Gladio. "I don't even want to know."

He digs in his pocket – comes out with a remedy. He unscrews the lid and lets the liquid splash down onto Ignis, and an instant later, those wild green eyes are less intense and more uncertain.

"Prompto?" Ignis says, distantly. He blinks. His gaze follows the line of his own arm, down to the place where his hand is still pressed up against Prompto's mouth.

Then he snatches it back like the point of contact's a hot stove.

Prompto doesn't think he's ever seen Iggy blush before, but the faint hint of pink high on his cheekbones does absolutely nothing to make him less attractive.


	6. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left comments or kudos! This is technically the last chapter, and Day 7 will be more of an epilogue. I hope you've enjoyed. :D
> 
> Day 6: Dancing

Their room at the Leville is like everything else in Altissia: elaborate and beautiful and probably obscenely expensive. It looks like the kind of place royalty might hold a ball in a fairy tale, complete with high ceilings and gold scrollwork and a vase that's totally worth more than every paycheck Prompto has ever received, combined.

Half an hour ago, his biggest fear was that he might breathe too hard in the direction of that vase and accidentally break it.

Now he's got way, way bigger problems.

"Uh," says Prompto, and tries to breathe. "Is this, uh."

"Not quite," says Ignis. "Place your hand a little higher."

Prompto edges his hand up, over the fabric of Ignis' crisp cotton button-up. He is so very aware of a gloved hand on his shoulder. He thinks he's going to pass out. Or throw up. Or just plain die.

Noct snickers, from where he's sprawled stomach-down on the bed, chin balanced in his hands. Prompto kind of wants to shoot him a pleading rescue-me look, but Noct's the one who got him into this in the first place.

"Now," says Ignis. "For a waltz, it helps to keep track of the beat in your head. One, two, three; one, two, three."

Maybe Gladio can save him. Gladio can be reasonable sometimes. But when Prompto chances a desperate glance in his direction, he's got his nose buried in a book, only the smirk a sign that's he's paying Prompto's untimely demise any attention at all.

Ignis is just looking at him. His eyes are calm, green as moss on a sunlit morning. Prompto's palms are sweating.

Say something, Prompto thinks at himself, urgently.

"So," says Prompto, "So what about other songs?"

Say something halfway _coherent_ , Prompto thinks at himself, even more urgently – but somehow, thank all the gods, Ignis know what he means.

"All waltzes are similar in structure," says Ignis. "And they're common enough that you ought to be able to dance once or twice, without learning anything more complicated. I think that should be plenty, for appearance's sake."

"Want me to find something on the radio?" Noct drawls, from the bed.

Prompto wants to go back in time and punch his younger self before he ever makes a best friend. Somehow, back in Insomnia, when Noct asked him to come along on this trip, it never occurred to him that he'd have to learn to dance.

Somehow, it never occurred to anyone else that he _couldn't_ , until tonight.

So now here they are, maybe two days out from Noct's reunion with Lady Lunafreya. Maybe five days out from a much-delayed wedding. 

And here Prompto is, in the arms of a man he's had a crush on since high school.

Noct's already flipping through radio stations without waiting for an answer. It's not like in Leide, where everything's ads or news broadcasts, and all the music comes with a twang. Altissia has probably twenty stations, most filled with the trill of violins and the swell of an orchestra, and Noct stops on a lively piece.

"There we are," says Ignis. "Can you hear it? One, two, three; one, two, three."

Prompto nods, cautiously.

"Shall we, then?" says Ignis. "Just remember the steps we walked through."

They start to move, so of course the very first thing Prompto does is step on Ignis' foot. 

"Sorry," he mumbles – and then, almost immediately, when it happens again: "Sorry!"

"That's quite all right," says Ignis. "Just remember, no weight on your right foot for – yes, that's the way. Much better."

The music swells; Prompto feet feel like there are bricks strapped to the bottoms of his shoes. He's sure his heart is going to beat right out of his chest. All he can feel are Ignis' gloved fingers on him, and the way they shift together with the beat, and the way Prompto's pants have grown way, way too tight.

It's the last part that makes him trip over his own two feet, this time. He yelps, and staggers – gets out a hand to catch himself on the bed just in time. Noct is grinning to himself like this is the this is the best thing he's ever seen, right up until Ignis clears his throat, pointedly.

"Perhaps we'd do better in the initial stages without an audience," says Ignis.

"I didn't say a word," says Noct. 

"I'm just reading," says Gladio, who has lowered his book to blatantly watch and has not in fact been reading for five minutes.

"Seconding that so hard," says Prompto, face burning. "GTFO, you guys."

"Seriously?" says Noct, mock offended.

"We'll fetch you when you're allowed again," says Ignis, implacable and calm.

It takes another minute to shoo them from the room – a moment after that, for Ignis' fingers to flip through the radio stations to find another waltz.

"Let's try that again," he says. "Shall we?"

So they try it again. Then they try it again, and again after that. 

By the time a half an hour is up, Prompto isn't tripping over his own two feet anymore. By the time two hours are up, he almost thinks he can pull it off in front of other people without making an idiot of himself. It won't be fancy; it won't be graceful. But he can do it, and that's the important thing.

Ignis must think the same, because he slows them to a stop when the song ends, and he doesn't move to search for another.

"There," says Ignis. "Quite passable, I should think. We'll practice a bit every night until the wedding, and you should do just fine."

Prompto's hand is still on Ignis' back, positioned for the waltz. He ducks his head a little. "Thanks, Iggy."

"It was my pleasure," says Ignis.

Their hands are still pressed together, palm to palm. Prompto can feel the supple leather of the gloves, smooth beneath his fingertips.

His mouth is very dry.

"So I guess," says Prompto. "I guess we're done for the day?"

"If you wish to be," says Ignis, softly, in reply.

He doesn't. He really, really doesn't. Suddenly, Prompto wants to stay right here, Ignis solid against him, listening to swirling classical music on the radio until he drowns in whatever feeling is welling up in his chest.

"Maybe a couple more tries," says Prompto. "Just to be safe."

They go another hour, until Prompto's feet hurt and he's breathing hard. They go until the buzz of excitement swimming beneath his skin is pleasant, instead of strangling.

They go until the song dies, and another starts up, and Ignis doesn't go to change the radio station.

"Prompto," says Ignis, and then subsides. His expression is strange: intent, the way it gets when he's calculating risks or laying out a strategy.

"Forgive me," says Ignis, "if I've misjudged."

Then he squares his shoulders and sets his jaw like a soldier marching off to war, and he leans in and presses a kiss against Prompto's mouth.

It's not tentative so much as matter-of-fact. It's brisk, and determined, more like a feint in a training bout than the tender kisses Prompto's seen on TV show romance.

Prompto almost swoons, anyway. Ignis' lips are smooth and soft, and the contact, however brief, makes him feel like someone's trying to coax a campfire to life beneath his skin.

He's still staring, utterly dumbstruck, when Ignis pulls back. There's a faint pink tinge to Ignis' cheeks, high on the cheekbones, and his tongue darts out, almost nervous, to lick at his lips.

Prompto can't stop staring.

"Apologies," says Ignis, after a moment. "I shouldn't have presumed." Then he takes his hand from Prompto's shoulder, and his palm from Prompto's palm, and he steps back and steels his expression, the way he used to do back in Insomnia while he was fielding questions from particularly pushy reporters.

 _Say_ something, Prompto tells himself, but his brain just won't shift back into gear.

His mouth is hanging open, and he still can't stop staring, and if he doesn't move, he's going to ruin this before it even gets a chance to start.

His hands jerk forward – clench hard on the fabric of Ignis' shirt, to keep him from going anywhere. 

Do it, Prompto tells himself, thoughts shouting to be heard over the sound of his own jangling nerves.

He steps forward like he's walking out onto lava, sure he's going to get burned. He comes in close – closer than they were for the dance lessons. He's going to mess this up, he's sure.

But when he leans up to kiss Ignis in return, the world doesn't end. Some of the tension in Ignis' shoulders bleeds away, and then he's reaching up to cup Prompto's face, so very careful.

The kiss is a lot less businesslike, this time. It's cautious, and searching, and mind-meltingly sweet. Prompto presses up into it – holds onto Ignis' shirt like he might float away. 

When Ignis slides an arm around his waist to pull him nearer still, Prompto shudders, aware of every inch of warmth pressed up against him, through the fabric of their clothes. He's had dreams that start a lot like this.

Gods, Prompto thinks, dizzy and a little overwhelmed, please don't let this be a dream.

It's not a dream.

Prompto gets confirmation about three seconds later.

He knows it for a fact, because dreams like this never involve Noct stepping into the hotel room with a cup of gelato in each hand, saying, "I got you guys pear and bleu cheese. I know it sounds weird, but hear me out."

Prompto yanks back from the kiss so fast he almost trips over his own two feet – feels his face go instantly surface-of-the-sun scorching hot. He stares toward the door, where Noct stands, face blank.

Slowly, the expression there lights up with the most devious grin Prompto thinks he's ever seen.

"It's cool," says Noct. "We'll eat this batch."

And he turns back for the door, shoving Gladio, who's just stepping in behind him, back out into the hallway.

"Bad timing," Noct says.

Gladio's voice drifts in from the hall: "Did Iggy finally make his move?"

"They were really getting into it."

"About damn time," says Gladio, and then the heavy wooden door swings closed behind them.


	7. Epilogue (Prologue?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end. (Or the beginning?)
> 
> Thank you guys for sticking with me for this one. :)
> 
> Day 7: Bonus

"Hey, Iggy," says Prompto, in a tone that's likely meant to pass as cheerful. "I, uh. I didn't expect to see you here."

The words are innocuous enough. They shouldn't sting in quite that way, and yet they do. Ignis wonders, were he able to observe Prompto's face, whether the expression would hold anything like reproach.

"I didn't expect to be here," says Ignis. 

It's true; he'd intended to stay the week in Old Lestallum, in one of the dusty hotel rooms that haven't seen a guest in years. There are hunts to undertake, and a laundry list of projects Ms. Jaeger would like assistance with, and a thousand and one other ways to occupy his time.

But Gladio had been in Old Lestallum when he'd arrived, and Iris as well. They'd dined together, one evening, or what tends to pass for dining in this world without a sun: canned food, thick and congealed, straight from the container.

"Stop being an asshole," Gladio said, when it was time for them to part ways. "Go see him, already."

And now here Ignis is, despite himself, standing on the familiar hard-packed dust of the ground outside of Hammerhead.

Here he is, and here Prompto is, and he can think of absolutely none of the things he's been meaning to say.

"You, uh," says Prompto. "You need something from Cindy? If you want to take five, I can go grab her."

Ignis clears his throat. He adjusts the glasses that hide his scars from the world. He says, "I'm not here to speak with Cindy."

A silence that falls after that, slightly too long to be comfortable. Ignis can just make out the shift in Prompto's breathing, as though the air catches in his throat. "Then what, uh. What's up?"

There's something about Prompto's voice just then, fragile and entirely too young. They've been living in the growing dark of what's arguably the end of the world for three years now, but that tone puts him in mind of the boy he once met in Noct's apartment, tongue-tied and bashful.

He can still recall the sunlight streaming in through the window that day, burnishing Prompto's hair with liquid gold. He can still recall the way Prompto flushed faintly pink when Ignis took his hand to shake it, and the wry, off-handed lilt Noct used for the introduction.

The recollection is warm and gentle as a cloud, but on its heels, as always, comes pain: _Noct_. 

It's so hard to face Prompto, without being assailed by memories. So many of their fondest shared moments play out in Noct's kitchen, or as they stand over Noct's birthday cake, or with Noct napping on the couch nearby. 

Ignis was young when his parents passed, too young by far to remember the hurt. He thinks he understands it now. 

This is what it must be like, to lose your family.

Even those few nights he and Prompto spent together, in the glittering splendor of Altissia before its destruction, are colored by hues of Noct: Noct's voice, and Noct's teasing smile, and Noct's hands holding cups of pear and bleu cheese gelato.

Gladio was right, Ignis thinks distantly. He _is_ an asshole.

It takes him a moment to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. It takes him longer to gather the words he's been meaning to say for three years. "I thought that we might spend an evening together," says Ignis. "If you're amenable."

For the most part, Ignis has made his peace with losing his eyes. In moments like this, however, he feels their loss like the edge of a blade. Nothing can quite replace the sight of Prompto's face, breathtakingly earnest and so very easy to read.

Now, without expressions to gauge by, he hasn't the faintest idea of what Prompto's reaction might be. The wait for a reply seems to take eons.

"What," says Prompto at last, tone uncertain. "Like a date?"

Ignis swallows. "If you'd like it to be one."

The silence lasts an eternity. Ignis strains his ears and attempts to decipher the soft rustle of fabric. It's Prompto fidgeting with the hem of his his shirt, he's fairly certain.

"Hate to break it to you," says Prompto at last. "But we're kind of in the middle of the apocalypse, here. I think the movie theaters are probably all closed."

"I imagine we can come up with a suitable substitute," says Ignis, and finds that he's holding his breath.

There's a touch at the top of Ignis' hand, then. It takes him a moment to recognize that it's the tips of Prompto's fingers, questing and soft. They linger a moment, hesitant, then take a firmer hold and give his hand a squeeze.

"Yeah," says Prompto, at last. "Yeah, I bet we can."


End file.
